


The Phantom's Daughter

by HesterGray



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Family, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HesterGray/pseuds/HesterGray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different kind of love story. Several months after the events of the original novel, Erik has failed to die of love, and a little match girl finds more than she bargained for in the cellars of the Palais Garnier...</p><p>Leroux-based, with elements of Hans Christian Andersen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I

 

He thought of the Sokushinbutsu: certain monks in Japan who could mummify themselves by sheer force of will.

 

It was during his time in Russia that he had first heard the stories. They travelled from throat to throat, along the Silk Road and the wagon trails of Samarkand, told by traders on their way to the great fair at Nizhny Novgorod.

 

They were nothing more than rumours, but Erik had been fascinated, and over the years he had collected every scrap of information that might help him to understand how such an extraordinary feat could be achieved. He had discovered that the process took several years. First, the monk spent one thousand days eating only nuts and seeds, taking part in a regimen of physical activity that stripped him of his body fat. For another thousand days he limited his diet further still, consuming bark, and drinking tea made from a tree-sap that rendered his body poisonous to maggots. Finally, he placed himself within a stone tomb, with only a small bell for company. He rang the bell at a particular time each day to inform his brothers that he remained alive, or at least capable of this small physical exertion. When the bell stopped ringing, the tomb was sealed, and after another thousand days his brothers opened it again to see if he had achieved his macabre goal.

 

He thought of these things as a distraction from the leitmotif which plagued his thoughts every day, from the moment his eyes opened to the moment that sleep reclaimed him.

 

He was not dead.

 

The fact was simple, unalterable, and it caused Erik to feel a great deal of anger at a time when he should have been purging his mind of all emotion. But how was it that his wasted body, which in all other respects resembled a corpse, continued to cling so perversely to life? He had given it no encouragement! His anger increased with every beat of the spiteful organ within his chest. Lying in the narrow coffin where he had spent the greater part of the last seven months, he listened to its indolent, indomitable thrum, growing ever more determined to win the battle of wills.

 

He knew there were other ways of achieving the desired outcome. Knew, for instance, of poisons that would stop his heart like a finger placed on a clock pendulum. Hanging would have the same effect, as would drowning, but he was too proud to resort to subterfuge. It should be enough that he willed it to happen!

 

Commanding himself to death, however, was proving more difficult in practice than in theory.

 

Eight months had passed since since the daroga had placed notice of his death in the newspaper. It had been agreed that Erik would send word when he felt the hour approaching; the announcement would summon Christine, who had promised to conduct his requiem mass, and return the ring which he had given her as a token of their engagement. Only then would she be free to marry her _other_ fiancé.

 

Honourable to the last, the daroga had of course fulfilled his part of the bargain. As for Christine? Eight months he had been dead and still she had not returned. It seemed unlikely that she ever would. False and fickle girl! And Erik had made it so easy, even digging his own grave at the base of the Communard’s tunnel to spare her the trouble of rowing across the lake. He dug it close to the spring where she had fainted after their first encounter. How greedily he preserved the memory of her little head resting in his lap, and the exquisite softness of her hair, which he had even dared to stroke, ever so gently, with the tips of his abnormally long fingers.

 

For the first month he had lain in that damp hole and waited for her to come. At first he had thought of nothing but death, since it would have been very awkward if she had returned to find his corpse still animated, but when both death and the maiden had failed to materialise he had relocated his poor bones to the coffin in which he presently slept.

 

The only thing he had gained from his time in the grave had been a bad cold. Unfortunately, he had made a full recovery.

 

Damn his constitution!

 

He placated himself with the notion that Christine had probably wanted to come, but had been prevented from doing so by one of the Vicomte de Chagny’s schemes. No doubt the little whelp had married her within hours of their departure from his lair. Of course she would have come if it had been her own choice: she was such a dear, sweet girl.

 

This would sustain him for a short time before darkness regained the upper hand. Then, he believed her capable of all manner of treacheries which he quickly admonished himself for thinking. Poor Christine! He could not blame her for wishing to avoid the sight of his decomposing corpse, although secretly he could not imagine it being any more hideous than the sight of his living corpse, whose forehead she had actually deigned to kiss. Sometimes he wondered if he had imagined it. Not even his own mother had been able to stomach that.

 

The soft chimes of the parlour clock interrupted his thoughts, and he counted the hours out of habit.

 

Ten... Eleven…

 

Twelve.

 

A perfect hour for the dead to rise.

 

He curled his fingers around the sides of the coffin and hoisted himself into a sitting position, ignoring the creak of his aging bones as he lowered himself down onto the floor. How old was he now -- forty? Surely closer to fifty. It was a broad question, for in truth he was not even sure what day it was. Sunday, perhaps. He would have to investigate.

 

Lighting a candle, he moved through the rooms in its flickering sphere, paying no attention to the dust and ruins.

 

In the parlour he set down the candle and examined the clock on the mantelpiece. It was no ordinary timekeeping device, but a handsome antique in brass and walnut wood, which measured the days, months, and even the movements of the Zodiac in addition to the hours and minutes.

 

According to a small dial in its left-hand corner, it was Friday morning, just after midnight.

 

He had an appointment to keep.

 

The walls of his parlour were crowded with paintings and prints. One of them depicted a Persian tower, which swung open on a concealed hinge to reveal a mechanism, complex to prying eyes, but quite simple to operate if one knew its secret. He placed his fingers on certain depressions and turned it like a combination lock. A moment later there was a click, following by a deep rumbling from beneath his feet. A pivot was turning, and with it his torture chamber, a replica of the octagonal, mirrored room which had caused so much terror during his days in Mazandaran. He waited until the sound had stopped before he opened the door and stepped inside. A spiral staircase had replaced the torture chamber, leading up to a seemingly impenetrable stone wall.

 

But nothing was what it seemed. Even in its ruined state, his house was a magician’s box of tricks.

 

Another deft touch and the stones slid back to reveal an ordinary storeroom. The opening was concealed by an old backcloth, affording him cover in the event of someone else being in the room. This was unlikely, as its principal function was the storage of props that were no longer used. It was also rumoured to be haunted. Earlier that year the body of a scene shifter named Joseph Buquet had been found hanging between the backcloth and a scenery flat. An unfortunate business, although Erik had little sympathy for the man. Curiosity had driven him to go looking for things that were none of his business, and as a result he had fallen into the torture chamber. Erik had returned to a gruesome scene. He had been obliged to winch the man’s substantial carcass back into the cellar, where he had staged a suicide in hope of discouraging any further intruders. Rumours of Buquet’s unquiet spirit had begun to circulate within weeks; Erik had helped them along a little, using his talent for ventriloquism.

 

As a result, he was fairly certain that only one person, besides himself, dared enter the room now, and she was not scheduled to return until tomorrow.

 

In spite of this he moved cautiously, peering into every corner as he emerged from behind the backcloth. There was no need for a candle. A dull, reddish glow emanated through the warped floorboards from the furnace room below, casting its gloomy light over a theatrical graveyard. Erik’s gaze travelled over storage crates and racks of moth-eaten costumes, into every nook and cranny, before settling upon the door with such intensity that it seemed he could see through it into the corridor beyond. Finally, satisfied that no-one else was lurking in the shadows, he moved to a nearby crate and lifted its lid. Resting upon an assortment of hats was a small wicker basket. He swung it over one arm, shut the lid, and hastened back to the secret doorway.

 

A few moments later the stones slid back into place, leaving no trace of their disturbance.

 

When it had become clear that he was not, in fact, dying of a broken heart, Erik had been forced to make arrangements for the dull practicalities of living. His needs were minimal, as he had no intention of living for any length of time, but still, a small amount of sustenance was necessary if he were to proceed in a dignified manner. And so he had contacted Madame Giry. In the past she had been very useful, attending his box, running his errands, and helping to embezzle the directors out of twenty thousand francs a month. She had, of course, been an unwitting accomplice to the latter. Despite his deception it had not been difficult to engage her services again. She was poor and he was wealthy.

 

Their new arrangement was simple. Performances took place at the Opéra on four nights of the week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Madame Giry delivered her basket of provisions after the performance on Wednesday evening. He collected his basket and left payment on Thursday, adding his list for the week ahead on Sunday. She collected this after Monday’s performance, which left two full shopping days before she completed the cycle on the following Wednesday.

 

He relied on the astronomical clock to keep to this schedule, servicing it fastidiously to ensure that it always kept perfect time; and there was always at least a day between Madame Giry leaving the room and Erik entering it, which minimised the possibility of them crossing paths in person.

 

One could not be too careful these days.

 

Smoothing out a copy of that week’s list, which he kept in his breast pocket, he began to unpack the basket, crossing through each item as he went along. There was bread and blue cheese, a small bottle of red ink, three hoggets of merino wool, five glass eyes in various shades of blue, and a packet of modelling wax. He paused when he came to the final item on the list, and frowned.

 

_Figs._

 

Erik was very fond of figs. It would not have been an exaggeration to say that a perfectly ripe fig was his sole remaining pleasure in life. This made Madame Giry’s recent habit of forgetting to buy them as unfortunate as it was baffling, as he felt that his instructions on the matter had been exceptionally clear. He very much hoped that tonight would mark a return to form.

 

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the final item out of the basket: a brown paper bag that should, in theory, have contained no less than seven figs. But instead of their smooth and slightly pliant flesh, his fingers closed around a small bundle tied with frayed and filthy string.

 

He pulled out the matches and stared at them in consternation.

 

This was the third time she had presented him with such an offering. Had the wretched woman forgotten how to read? He had clearly stated that he required seven figs, not another box of matches. He had enough of those to burn down the entire quartier! He had even considered that the word ‘fig’ might be the name of some new brand of matches, taking great pains to emphasise that he was in fact referring to the fruit of the plant of the genus known as ficus, which he thought would have made further confusion impossible for anyone with at least half a brain - and yet she continued to wilfully misinterpret his demands.

 

Well, he would have no more of it!

 

Snatching up the bottle of red ink, Erik stalked into the library, seated himself at the desk, and penned the woman a stern missive.

 

> _Madame,_
> 
>  
> 
> Please find enclosed the twenty seven francs that are owed to you in payment for last week’s provisions, in addition to the usual compensation for your trouble.
> 
>  
> 
> _You will note that I have not included the two francs due in respect of the figs which you have again neglected to purchase, despite the polite reminder in my last letter._
> 
> _Please ensure that this oversight is not repeated._
> 
> _O.G._

 

When the letter was complete he thrust it into the empty basket, which he then carried upstairs and threw into the hat crate with more force than was necessary.

 

Afterwards, he wanted to leave the opera house. He wanted to go to her wretched little apartment on the rue de Provence and set fire to it. He wanted her to see exactly what happened when he had matches to spare.

 

But Erik did none of these things.

 

Instead, he returned to the library and sank into a chair by the fire, releasing his anger in a slow, controlled breath.

 

It felt like decades since he had last worked himself into such a fury. The effort was exhausting, and whatever the reason for their breakdown in communication, a surfeit of matches hardly excused his temper. He was, after all, preparing himself for eternity. What use were figs? They only showed his attachment to things which should have no meaning now, to the ephemera of life.

 

His gaze fell on a small brass samovar that sat upon the mantelpiece. A souvenir from his time in Russia, used for the brewing of their foul, idiosyncratic tea.

 

If he recalled correctly, the Sokushinbutsu of Japan made their tea from the sap of the urushi tree. Yes, that was it. A curious substance, more commonly used in the production of the small lacquered boxes, inlaid with mother of pearl, which had been so popular in France since the trade embargo had been lifted. No doubt the pure sap would be difficult, if not impossible, for Madame Giry to procure, but if he were to get his hands on one of those lacquered boxes, he was confident that he could find some way of extracting it, and thus put the samovar to something more than ornamental use. It would not be suicide to ingest such a substance, he told himself. It would something noble. A ritual of sorts, tidier than disembowelling.

 

Fatigue began to cloud his thoughts. He rested his head against the antimacassar, letting them wander. In pursuit of their goal, the Sokushinbutsu starved themselves to become living corpses, a state Erik had already attained, and just as they sealed themselves into their tombs, so had Erik destroyed most of the secret entrances to his underground lair, beneath the opera house which the press had once derisively called Garnier’s mausoleum.

 

More than this, it would solve the problem of the figs, for if he was to have any hope of achieving his goal then he would have to suppress such appetites, detach from worldly desires, and become an empty vessel.

 

Yes, he thought, that would suit him very well.

 

He closed his eyes, and slept.

 

***

 

In dreams he travelled as the traders had done, along the Silk Road and the wagon trails of Samarkand, across the landscape of his past. He was flying somehow, skimming desert sands and poppy fields before soaring above the battlements of the palace he had built for the Shah’s mother at Mazandaran, plunging through the mouth of a human-headed bull, down into the palace itself, through pleasure gardens and lattice-walled harems, into the Hall of Mirrors, where he saw a figure in a richly bejewelled mask reflected ten thousand times and more.

 

She sat upon the dias, the one they called the Khanom, watching his approach from her fan-backed throne. Two men stood beside her. The daroga, like a statue carved in ebony, and a European, tall and gaunt with an aquiline nose and cold, cruel eyes. There was something about those eyes. Erik knew him, but could not immediately put a name, or any specific details, to the face. He felt a gathering unease at being summoned like this, at being put on the back foot.

 

“Did you think I would not find her?” the Khanom asked him.

 

He did not understand. Careful, always careful not to show weakness, which she would strike at like a snake, he feigned nonchalance. “Find her?”

 

“Now, now Erik -- don’t be slippery. You forgot that I have eyes everywhere.” Her smile was slow poison. “Poor little bird. Tell me, now that her wings are broken, how will she fly away?”

 

She was talking about Christine. Something curdled in the pit of his stomach, but his lips -- the only part of his face the mask did not cover -- remained a firm, impassive line. It had to be a bluff. Christine had never been to Persia. Christine did not even belong to this time. But then, neither did the European. His gaze slid discreetly to the daroga, whose jade eyes were steeped in sadness. Best play along. He licked his lips, ready to conjure a reply, but the Khanom was already bored with him, inclining her chin toward the European and drawling her next question.

 

“What do you think, Delacroix?”

 

Delacroix looked down his nose at Erik, with a cold sneer that made him feel very small and weak.

 

“It was for her own good,” he said.

 

And then Erik saw the red line around the Delacroix’s neck. Biting, bleeding. And he realised what had troubled him about his eyes, which had an odd sheen, like liquid mercury.

 

Delacroix was dead, and had been for some time.

 

He stumbled backwards. He had to find to find Christine, wherever she was, before the Khanom found them. But the Khanom was dead too, was she not? They were all dead. Roaring water filled his ears, and the figures on the dias tilted and split, became reflected infinities. He was lost in a maze of mirrors. Alone now, he hammered against the glass with desperate fists. It was closing in on him. Eight sides to the room. Eight sides… he realised that he was not in the throne room at all, but had somehow become trapped in his own torture chamber. He had fallen for his own illusions!

 

There was still time to save Christine. His fingers smoothed and skimmed until they found the telltale seam that joined the mirrors, following it down to the pressure point. A tap was all it took. The pane swung open and he slipped into the darkness. There was a clamminess to the air, and when he reached out, his palms touched cold, damp stone.

 

Someone was singing. A beautiful voice, a voice he knew better than his own...

 

He must be in the Communard’s tunnel. But how? It did not matter now. All he had to do was keep climbing and he would reach another mirror, the one that concealed the entrance to Christine’s dressing room.

 

But when he stepped back into the light he found himself in a different room entirely. The curtains were drawn, and a candle burned on a chest of marble-topped drawers. An odd feeling settled around his shoulders. A feeling that he had been gone for many years, like Rip van Winkle, swallowed up by a fairy ring and forgotten. He was supposed to find something, or someone. Who was it? Had they lit the candle? Everything coated in a thin layer of dust, the wallpaper rotted and hanging in shreds.

 

In the bed lay a skeleton. It was so small and shrunken in death that at first he had not seen it. And above the bed, a painting of a tall, gaunt man. He looked away, unable to meet the man’s gaze. He looked at the skeleton again. It was dressed in a woman’s clothes that were at least half a century out of fashion. A plain gold ring glittered on the third finger of its left hand, and it was clutching something, a scrap of fabric.

 

He stepped closer, and saw that it was a little mask, small enough to fit a child.

 

_Someone was singing…_

***

 

It was dark when he woke up. The candle had gone out, and it took him several minutes to remember where he had left it. Ah, yes. The bureau. There were more candles in the left hand drawer to replace the stub, and thanks to Madame Giry there was also an abundant supply of matches. He struggled out of the chair. His old bones made their usual protest, especially the vertebrae in his neck, which crackled as he shook his head to expel the remnants of his dream.

 

A few fumbling moments later the candle was lit, and he shuffled into the parlour to read the time on the astronomical clock.

 

He had been asleep for almost four days.

 

Time slipped by so quickly down here, so this information did not surprise him, but it was disorientating. He stepped back and blinked owlishly about the room. Dust and ruins, he thought vaguely, the pictures leaning forward on their chains like eavesdroppers. At times like this it was difficult to believe that he had actually travelled to the the places he dreamed about. The dreams themselves were so vivid that he might have mistaken them for real memories, when really they were more likely to have sprung from a combination of vivid brush-strokes, and the whispering of gilt-edged volumes that winked at him from the library shelves, playing tricks on a mind already weakened by solitude.

 

For all he knew there had been no Khanom, no palace in Mazandaran, and the skeleton in the ivy-choked chateau might have escaped from the pages of a fairy tale.

 

Perhaps Christine, too, had been no more than a figment.

 

He squinted at the clock again. It was Sunday, which meant that he should leave a shopping list in the hat crate for Madame Giry. There seemed little point in leaving another when he had already slept half the week away, but it was important to keep to the schedule. If he did not then he risked arousing the old woman’s curiosity, and in his experience, curiosity led unfortunate events.

 

Taking a sheet of paper from the bureau, he scribbled down a few items that he recalled from his previous list, and grudgingly made his way up to the third cellar.

 

A letter was waiting for him in the hat crate.

 

> _Monsieur Fantôme_
> 
> _I am very sorry about leaving out the figs. It has much aggrieved me, although I must say that it is strange because I clearly recollect buying them. I think I must have got my thoughts in a tangle if monsieur takes my meaning. I have been run ragged this week with the tenants asking me do all sorts of little things and I can only think I must have given one of them your figs by accident. I very much hope that you can accept my most humblest assurances that it will not happen again._
> 
> _I have taken particular care over the figs this time and I hope that you will find them to your liking._
> 
> _Yours respectfully,_
> 
> _Clementine Giry._
> 
> _PS. My little Meg does very well as the leader of the row and minds herself to keep respectable and ladylike although she is a silly girl in many ways. We are both very grateful for your kind words to the directors._
> 
>  

He looked in the hat crate again and spied a paper bag in the hollow of a Roman helmet. Inside, as promised, were seven ripe figs.

 

A queer feeling rose in his chest. Snatching the figs, he stalked back down to his lair. Ridiculous woman! What did she mean by wittering on about Meg? He was not some maiden aunt anxiously following the career of his sister’s prodigious spawn -- and he had certainly not been putting in good words with the directors!

 

Then came the memory, fluttering like a moth at the back of his mind. Several years ago, when the Opéra had not long opened, he had left a letter on the ledge of his box for Madame Giry to find. It contained a list of all the young ladies associated with the Opéra who had gone on to make profitable marriages - sopranos engaged to dukes and the like. He had insinuated that, if she played her cards well enough, in a few years her own daughter, a skinny little ballet rat that no man in his right mind would glance twice at, would become an empress. It was a lie, of course, a ridiculous ruse to ensure her loyalty. He could no more divine the future than he could stroll down the Boulevard des Capucines without his mask. Surely she did not still believe it?

 

That feeling again, gnawing at his sternum.

 

Guilt.

 

Poor Madame Giry. Poor Clementine! How strange it was to know her name after all these years. He recalled the tone of his previous letter with no small amount of shame. It was he that should be apologising, not the other way around! But how to make amends. Before this sorry business was over, he would have to ensure that she was properly looked after. A cottage in the country and a generous stipend that meant she would never have to scrub another stairwell. A house, even. Somewhere affluent and peaceful. The coast, perhaps. Twenty thousand francs a month, shrewdly invested, had ensured that he was a wealthy man, and it seemed only fitting that Madame Giry should have a share in these profits. She had, after all, helped him to acquire them.

 

His conscience remained unsatisfied. Seeking a distraction, he abandoned the figs on top of the pianoforte and set off in the direction of his bedchamber.

 

It was time to visit his lady.   

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

As always, she was waiting for him.

 

His other Christine.

 

His other Christine did not faint at the sight of his face or shrink from his touch. Indeed, he could even take her into his arms and she would remain smiling and compliant — not that he would ever take such liberties! No, his other Christine must be accorded the same respect as her human counterpart.

 

Oh, but Erik had been neglecting her lately! A mouse had taken advantage of his absence by nesting within the honey-coloured silk of her wig; closer inspection revealed that the same rodent had also nibbled away her left earlobe. Erik released a soft moan of despair at this discovery. Removing the head and cradling it like the most delicate of ornaments, he brought it to his work table to get a better look at the damage, tilting it gently beneath the gas lamp until he was satisfied that the damage was confined to the left ear. Her pretty nose had not been eaten!

 

Allowing himself to breathe, he placed the head upon a pillow and went to fetch the items that Madame Giry had lately procured for him. The merino hoggets would form the swell of her breasts, and it was with trembling hands that he set them aside for the time being. The eyes he would need presently. First, though, he would need the wax in order to repair her damaged earlobe.

 

He opened the packet and broke a piece off, softening it between his fingers before he set to work. Hunched over the small table he shaped a new earlobe quickly and carefully; speed was important as he needed the wax to remain pliable without becoming elastic. Once it was attached, he drew back slightly to admire his handiwork. To the untrained eye the effect was quite impressive. In fact, one might go so far as to call it worthy of a place in Madame Tussaud’s esteemed collection.

 

Oddly enough it had been Christine herself - the real Christine - who had given Erik the idea of making a waxwork. On the terrible night when he had attempted to force her into marriage, she had naively likened the interior of his torture chamber to a display at the Musée Grévin, the city’s newly opened wax museum. In the weeks that followed her departure, Erik had remembered this comment, and a plan had formed.

 

Of course it was not as good as the real thing, but it kept him company.

 

For a moment he entertained himself with the notion of finding employment in the studios of Grévin or Tussaud. His mask would not bother anyone there! He could even make a new one out of wax, and present himself as both artist and model - a walking advertisement! A bubble of glee rose in his chest at such a thought, and he felt almost like his old self.

 

But his giddiness was short-lived. His other Christine might be up to Madame Tussaud’s standards, but she hardly satisfied his own. The eyes, for example, were not exactly true to life. Christine’s eyes had been the deep, pellucid blue of the great Norwegian lakes that one saw in paintings. The present ones were far too pale and insipid-looking. Reaching up through her neck and into the hollow of her skull, he plucked the offending eyes from their sockets and considered the selection that Madame Giry had brought him. China-blue, azure, lapis lazuli, forget-me-not. None of these were quite right. The last pair looked promising, though. He fixed them in place. They would suffice until he found something more suitable.

 

Despite the feeling of dissatisfaction that still lingered, he rose and carried the head back to its body, fixing it in place and standing back to consider the full affect.

 

His smile slowly faded. The resemblance was almost uncanny, but Erik now realised that it was missing a vital, and unobtainable, ingredient. It was Christine’s spirit, not her beauty, that had captured his heart. How could he ever hope to recreate that? Oh, he could create the illusion of life, just as Madame Tussaud had done when she created a model of the Comtesse du Barry. Sleeping Beauty, they called her, reclining on a chaise longue. While the real Comtesse du Barry had lost her head during the Terror and lay dismembered, like so many others, beneath the soil of the Madeleine cemetery, her effigy in London remained intact and seemingly immortal, thanks to a mechanism that made her chest rise and fall in artificial slumber. By candlelight the illusion was said to be eerily convincing. Perhaps he could invent a similar mechanism, but even if he did, his other Christine would never be more than a charming automaton.

 

Reaching out, he traced the contours of her face with his long fingers. Her waxen skin felt like that of a newly embalmed corpse. At any other time he would have found this darkly amusing, but now it filled his chest with a terrible ache.

 

_Oh, Christine…_

 

He had never intended to fall in love with the girl. How could he? Love was for ordinary people, with ordinary faces, who lived in ordinary houses made of ordinary bricks. He was a mountebank living in a house with a false bottom. He did not even have a face!

 

At first he saw her as little more than a broken instrument. A project, to relieve his boredom. He would take a passable, uninspired voice and transform it into something magnificent, just as many years ago, when he had taken apart a clavichord in his father’s chateau and put it back together again, hoping to improve its discordant sound. And if he was being entirely honest it was more than that. In the solitude of his lair he had begun to work on his own compositions, inspired by the operas that drifted down from above, and he harboured a growing ambition to see his creation realised upon Garnier’s stage. Christine’s voice would serve as a perfect conduit for his talents: a means of achieving the fame that his face denied him.

 

And when she had the world at her feet, she would announce a great concert dedicated to her maestro’s work, and he would be victorious at last.

 

Her feelings were of no consequence. She was merely an instrument that he could easily replace if it played the wrong notes. Sopranos were hardly in short supply and besides, she did not even want to be there. He could well imagine her retiring to some nunnery to live out her days in an endless litany of prayers for her wretched father, whose death he learnt was to blame for her listlessness. He might have chosen any one of the chorus girls. Christine had simply come to his attention first, and her childish belief in the Angel of Music afforded him a useful proxy through which to communicate without having to reveal his true face. After convincing her that he had come down from heaven to enable her to discover the supreme joys of eternal art, he began to give her lessons in her dressing room each morning, speaking to her through the two-way mirror that concealed the entrance to the Communard’s tunnel.

 

For several weeks he felt nothing but a vague contempt at her gullibility. But as their lessons progressed he began to find that childlike trust strangely affecting, and her eyes upon the glass, so full of esteem and affection, ignited something wonderful within his chest.

 

Of course, it did not last. A few months later she confided that she had seen her childhood sweetheart, the Vicomte de Chagny, watching from his family box. The rush of jealousy he felt upon hearing this had been suffocating. Terrified of what such a reaction must mean, he had tried to end their lessons, knowing that things had gone too far; but Christine had renounced the boy and assured him that her heart belonged to him alone! Even after she had discovered that he was not the Angel and had seen his true face she insisted that she was in love with him. She had burned his mask, and said that she would marry him in the Madeleine church, that they would live in an ordinary house made of ordinary bricks and play cards and go for walks in the park on Sundays - Kyrie! Kyrie! Kyrie eleison!

 

He paused, and looked doubtfully at his other Christine.

 

Had she really said those things?

 

Perhaps he had only imagined them. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, but he recognised the futility of such a gesture. The one who deserved his prostrations was gone now, and he hoped very much that the Vicomte was helping her to forget what had happened here, in the house by the lake.

 

Yes, he remembered now.

 

In truth the poor girl had been petrified. Not of his face, in the end, but of something much worse. The true deformity was internal. His face merely warned of the monster within, the monster that was unleashed when he discovered that Christine did not really love him after all, that she was so terrified of his affections that she planned to elope with the Vicomte, to whom she was secretly engaged. He had flown into a murderous rage. Desperate not to lose Christine, he had taken her prisoner and presented her with a terrible ultimatum: marry him, or he would blow up the entire opera house with everyone in it, including her precious fiancé, whom he had managed to trap in his torture chamber.

 

Being a good girl, Christine had agreed. She would have agreed to anything to save her boy.

 

Of course Erik had not expected a real marriage. Tragic heroines were inclined to kill themselves on their wedding nights, and Christine had already demonstrated her intentions by spending a good part of the evening attempting to beat her own brains out against a certain corner of her bedroom wall. He was content with this. At least be together in death. It was only when she had offered to become his _living_ wife that Erik had realised the full horror of what he had been about to do. Taking advantage of this rare moment of sanity, he had released the Vicomte from the torture chamber, and allowed the young lovers to leave.

 

She had kissed him then, chastely, and left him with the promise that she would return to bury his remains when the time came.

 

Such events weighed heavily upon his conscience. Twisting his hands together, he turned from his other Christine and maundered through the empty rooms like a sleepwalker, barely conscious of his surroundings until he came to the parlour. He knew that he was beginning to lose time. It was hard to measure down here, even with the aid of his mantelpiece clock. He paused in front of it, listening to the way it ticked in tandem with his heart. They bent to the same rhythm now. Sometimes he felt as though it was the only thing keeping him alive.

 

If he were to stop his faithful windings…

 

He could not bear this isolation much longer. Eight months had passed since he had last ventured from his lair, unless one counted a single trip to the Rue de Provence to convince Madame Giry to resume her position, slipping a scrawled and wheedling letter beneath her door. He had not even spoken to the woman. He had not spoken to anybody. Eight months could have been eight years, eight decades. Days passed in the space of a short nap and he found himself checking the clock repeatedly, unable to fix the passage of time in his mind, taking absurd pleasure in his nocturnal forays into the third cellar, where Madame Giry’s basket provided him with proof that the world still turned.

 

And now, as his gaze slid from the mantelpiece and into the fire’s grey embers, he came to a disturbing realisation. He was quite certain that if Christine were to return to keep her promise and find him still alive, he would not be able to let her go a second time.

 

That must not be allowed to happen.

 

But how could he prevent it?

 

A thought unfurled at the back of his mind. It was not a new thought. In fact, it was one that he had examined and discarded many times during the long months of his confinement.

 

He returned to the desk in the library, where his Punjab lasso lay in a small and dusty drawer. It had lain unused for many months, but he removed it now and drew it speculatively through his fingers. It did not look particularly deadly. A simple length of catgut of the kind one used to string a lute or a violin; but this one had claimed many lives since it had first been put to use in an enclosed courtyard of the Khanom’s palace. That first murder had been committed in self-defence. As for the others… He could not remember how many the Khanom had ordered him to dispatch. It seemed like hundreds, now that he felt their weight pressing upon his chest.

 

And the killings had not just been on the Khanom’s orders. There was Joseph Buquet to consider, and the poor woman who had the misfortune to sit beneath a badly secured chandelier, and the Comte de Chagny. Perhaps they had not died by his hand but he had certainly done nothing to prevent their deaths; and despite the promise he had made to the daroga on his escape from Persia, he had committed at least one murder in cold blood.

 

Delacroix.

 

Shuddering at the memory, he carried the lasso back into his bedchamber, coming to a halt in front of his other Christine. She watched in mute anticipation as his gaze rose to the ceiling. A hook could be fixed there with no great difficulty. He glanced down at his other Christine, anxious for her approval. Her lips were curved into a slight, conspiratorial smile, as if she had guessed his thoughts and given her consent to the plan that was forming in his mind.

 

It seemed fitting that he should use the Punjab lasso. Perhaps it was not quite as noble as the Sokushinbutsu’s method, but there was a sort of poetic justice to the idea of dispatching himself with the very weapon he had used on so many of his victims, and in doing so he would protect Christine from the possibility of suffering any further harm at his hands.

 

He smiled, gazing into the depths of her vacant blue eyes.

 

Soon they would be together for eternity.

 

***

 

The next few days were entirely devoted to preparation. These things had to be done properly. Erik had always been a stickler for etiquette, especially where suicide was concerned.

 

First there was the manikin to consider. His other Christine must look her best.

 

Now that her face was complete, he turned his attention to the rest of her body. He used the remainder of the wax to make her delicate hands and feet, shaping her fingernails from shards of pearl that had begun their lives as necklace beads. He had been forced to improvise with most of the materials. For instance, her torso and limbs were made of wood and metal butchered from his pipe organ, whose disgorged remains now lay in a far corner of the room. It had been a shame to destroy the organ, which had taken him many months to build, but he took comfort from the idea of creating one instrument from the corpse of another.

 

Over this hard, unyielding skeleton he draped merino and linen; merino for the padding and linen stitched in such a way as to suggest the softness of the female form. He did not think it wise to concern himself with precise anatomical details. To do so might give rise to ungentlemanly emotions, and he must take care to always act like a gentleman where Christine was concerned, something he had not always done in the past.

 

It was difficult to remember this as he used the last of the merino to create the gentle swell of her breasts. As soon as he was finished he draped his opera cloak about Christine’s torso to protect her modesty.

 

Of course, she needed something grander to wear…

 

Erik had bought the real Christine several gowns during her time with him, but they were all hung neatly in the wardrobe of her room. He could not bring himself to go in there. Only a husband had the right to enter a woman’s room without first asking for permission. That left his mother’s clothes. He had taken them out of Christine’s wardrobe and put them in his dressing room, as he had not wanted to arouse her curiosity. Christine really was most dreadfully curious.

 

He went into the closet and examined her gowns, which he quickly realised were entirely unsuitable. Christine might have been slender, but these gowns would have been snug on a girl of twelve. Had his mother really been so tiny? He remembered her being frail - almost birdlike - but she had always been in bed, shrouded in blankets and propped up by pillows, making her true proportions difficult to estimate. Besides, her clothes were too old-fashioned, their lace turned brittle with age.

 

Running his finger along one ivory sleeve, he suddenly had a marvellous idea.

 

He would make her a gown!

 

A wedding gown, more beautiful than any bride had ever worn! Yes… and when the time came, he would imagine that they were standing before the altar in the Madeleine church, about to exchange their vows.

 

There was no time to waste. He would need buttons, yards of silk, metres of taffeta. And ribbons - he must not forget ribbons! Pulling out all of his mother’s clothes, he picked apart their seams, salvaging anything of use, which turned out to be very little. Most of the fabric was close to disintegrating. He would have to ask Madame Giry for assistance. Returning to the library, he pulled out a few pieces of paper and wrote down his requirements, which seemed enough to clean out an entire haberdashery. He knew that Madame Giry would not be able to afford such expensive items, and so he placed several crisp hundred franc notes inside the envelope, which he took upstairs and placed inside the empty basket. It occurred to him that Madame Giry might become suspicious of the fact that his list did not contain his usual request for victuals, so he hurried back upstairs and added a few extra items in his almost illegible scrawl. Bread, cheese…

 

Figs.

 

He forced himself not to dwell on the business of the figs. If he was to die with any semblance of peace, he must think only of Christine, and remove his mind from all other earthly desires.

 

Time seemed to slow to an excruciating, glacial pace.

 

He filled it with further preparations for the wedding, eking out his limited resources as best he could. Deciding that he might as well put the matches to some use, he gathered up all the candles he could find and brought them into his bedchamber, along with any flowers that were still in possession of their heads. They rustled as he set them in place. Suddenly realising what might happen if a candle were to set fire to the room after the wedding, he hurried down to the Communard’s dungeon and carried out a minute inspection of every crevice, until he was satisfied that not a single grain of gunpowder remained. It would somewhat defeat the object of protecting the world from his fiendishness if his death were to cause a deadly explosion.

 

Wednesday arrived. Everything was ready except the gown. He had arranged Christine’s hair in a suitably intricate style, and he had even set out a little wedding breakfast on the worktable. Figs, of course, and the bottle of Tokay he had opened for Christine on the first night she had spent in his lair. He had been saving it for a special occasion.

 

Soon, there was nothing left but to wait until the following night. It was excruciating, hearing the clock strike midnight in the knowledge that Madame Giry was delivering her basket, but he must keep to the schedule. Thursday was collection night. He could not let himself grow careless when he was so close to achieving his goal.

 

He went into the library and took down the seventh volume of _A Natural History of the World_ , hoping for a distraction, but its words passed through his mind without making any impression upon it. He had never known a clock to tick so loudly; the chimes were enough to bring down the walls of Jericho!

 

It occurred to him, as the clock struck one, that every hour wasted put the real Christine in danger. Suppose she were to come before he finished the dress?

 

When the clock struck two, his mind was made up. He hastened upstairs and, after lingering behind the backcloth for a moment, he crept over to the hat crate, where he was delighted to find that Madame Giry had followed his instructions to the letter. Several parcels of fabric sat alongside his usual provisions. He idled a moment, running his hands over the rustling tissue paper, examining a square of exquisitely wrought Belgian lace.

 

In among the parcels was another bag of figs. She was too good to him! He reached inside with a fond smile, thinking that he might take one as a snack for the journey back to his chamber, wondering as he did so if all grooms felt this queer combination of joy and restlessness in the days approaching their wedding?

 

His fingers closed around something wet and brittle.

 

Matches.

 

He removed a handful and stared at them. A moment passed. He did not react with anger or surprise but with utter stillness, like the hare when it senses the hawk that hunts it.

 

Madame Giry had not done this.

 

A chill crept over him. Someone else knew he was here. Whoever it was, they had interfered with his basket in the short hours between Madame Giry placing it there and his coming to collect it. They had taken his figs and had, for some unfathomable reason, replaced them with a bundle of sodden matches. Not once, but four times!

 

He cocked one ear and listened again. Unless the thief were holding their breath, they had already fled the scene of the crime.

 

Who were they, and what the devil did they mean by stealing his food? Surely there were easier ways of acquiring sustenance! Steal it from an epicerie, from a market stall, from an unguarded picnic - but who in their right mind would sneak into the bowels of an opera house to steal figs from a retired ghost?

 

There must be more to it than that. Persia sprang to mind; the Khanom had been fond of surreal tricks. But she was long dead, and the daroga believed that Erik had followed in her footsteps. It did not seem likely that the Roma had tracked him down after all these years. And as for the matches… during his time as the Khanom’s executioner he had never dabbled in fire, and he could not think of anyone he had offended for whom they might have special significance.

 

Unless it was someone he did not know -- in all likelihood a thrillseeker bent on tracking down the infamous Opéra Ghost, or one his many incarnations. It would not be the first time. He remembered sticks poked through bars, the laughter of drunken men.

 

There was a noise behind him. Erik spun around, scattering the matches in a startled arc.

 

They were still here!

 

The chill in his veins hardened to ice. Never mind that he was actively preparing for death -- he intended to meet his maker on equal terms, not smoked out liked a rat for someone else’s amusement. He was no longer a sideshow freak! A cold and deadly rage began to overtake him. Instinctively, he reached for the Punjab lasso, his gaze travelling over the assorted crates and pieces of abandoned scenery.

 

The sound came again, this time more distinctly. A stifled cough. Silently, he closed in on its source: a costume rack at the far side of the room. The costumes themselves were slightly mussed, and a familiar scent hung about them.

 

Figs.

 

Another soft sound; fabric against fabric.

 

He lunged forward, wrenching the costumes apart. There was a squeak of alarm and the thief darted between his legs, scuttling beetle-wise toward the door. In three strides he was upon it. Before it had a chance to stand he dragged it up by the throat, smothering its terrified scream with his other hand. He would not use the Punjab lasso, not yet. First he would make it sing its secrets.

 

A few moments was all it took. A few moments for the thief to stop struggling and slacken in his arms, almost weightless. Odd. It should not have lost consciousness so quickly. He could feel its bones, thin as matchsticks, beneath his fingers, and with a sharp intake of breath he realised what that meant. Shocked, he flung it away, watching in horror as it crumpled to the ground like so many twigs.

 

He had made a terrible mistake.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Erik was pacing.

 

He was particularly good at pacing, having had much occasion to practice during his tenure as Christine’s angel, although this time the creature on his drawing room rug was most emphatically not a beautiful soprano.

 

It was a little girl.

 

At least, he _thought_ it was a little girl. Upon closer inspection he was not entirely sure. Little girls were supposed to be dimpled and angelic, with rosy cheeks and golden curls. This one looked more like a flea or a crushed spider, with its matted black hair and brittle limbs tangled up in filthy, soaking rags. They had left a wet imprint on the arms and chest of his shirt and he felt a rising panic as it permeated the fabric. He had taken such care to seal himself away from humanity, and now his home - his very skin - was contaminated by it!

 

He stopped pacing and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he repeated the mantra that he had composed as he carried the girl down from the third cellar.

 

_He must remain calm. He must remain calm. The girl would be safe as long as he remained calm._

After a moment, he exhaled, feeling slightly more rational. He opened his eyes and looked down at the girl. Beneath the grime, he could see that her skin was regaining its colour, which was reassuring. She had been so still and pale when he had first placed her on the rug that he had been worried she might expire. He had not wanted that. However, her recovery posed problems of its own. He was in no fit state to entertain guests, especially ones he had just attempted to strangle, but at the same time he could not simply let her go now that she knew his secret. He had gone to considerable trouble to convince both the management and the constabulary that the Opéra Ghost was no more. Suppose she raised the alarm? And he could not very well deal with her in the usual fashion. He might be a monster, but his crimes had never run to infanticide.

 

That left him with only one option. He would have to keep her prisoner.

 

Damn women and their infernal curiosity!

 

He resumed his furious pacing. Erik did not _want_ another prisoner. He had tried that once before and it had turned out very badly for all concerned. All he wanted was to be left alone so that he could die with some semblance of dignity. Was that really too much to ask? He paused, dismally certain of the answer, and at the same moment there was a noise from the rug.

 

The creature was stirring. In preparation, he drew himself up to his full height, making no attempt to retrieve his mask from the table. Let her see him in all his hideous glory! There would be no Angel of Music this time, no sugar-coated subterfuge! Let her see exactly what kind of monster she was dealing with!

 

He watched with cool detachment as her prone form stirred and subsided and then stirred again. She grew still for a moment, no doubt becoming aware of her surroundings, and then pushed herself up into a sitting position. Erik gritted his teeth, steeling himself for the inevitable scream.

 

It never came.

 

Oddly, the girl did not immediately notice his looming presence. Instead, she gazed into the fire with an detached, vacant expression.

 

He cleared his throat, and she looked at him.

 

Although his wretched face was on full display, she still did not scream; merely stared at him with wide, ingenuous brown eyes. Erik was disconcerted. Perhaps she believed herself to be dreaming? She frowned slightly, as if he were no more than a particularly ugly statue, and then her gaze slid from his face and travelled slowly around the room, no doubt observing its dust and dishevelment.

 

Erik felt his hackles rise. “I do hope my home pleases you,” he sneered, “for you will never leave it. Do you understand? You have fallen prey to the Opéra Ghost!”

 

When this did not provoke a reaction, he tried to increase his menace by circling his prey, allowing the hissing gas-lamps to cast strange shadows upon his gruesome features. He slid easily into his old persona. “Oh, if you had been a good little girl, then I might have let you go. But good little girls do not steal things or spy on people. You have been greedy, and intruded upon my privacy, and for that you must be punished! No bargains or reprieves! You are my prisoner now and no-one shall come to your rescue! Are you not terrified? Perhaps you do not understand the full horror of your predicament. This is no ordinary house, my flea, with ordinary doors and ordinary windows through which you might escape. It is a box of tricks - and deadly ones at that! The lake that surrounds it is haunted by a siren that has eaten hundreds of trespassers, all of them braver and stronger than you…”

 

She did not even flinch. Erik stopped circling and straightened up, feeling somewhat perturbed.

 

“You are a strange creature,” he said. “What is your name?”

 

His enquiry was met by silence, and his temper began to fray.  She was not even looking at him! “Are you quite deaf?” he demanded. “Answer me!”

 

She looked at him then, and he noticed that her eyes were glassed with tears. Whether or not she understood him, at least some sense of danger had penetrated.

 

A bolt of panic shot through him. If she cried then he would be undone!

 

“None of that,” he said gruffly, beating a slight retreat. “Remember this is entirely of your own doing. We must all learn to face the consequences of our actions. And Erik will not harm you, as long as you perform your duties to his liking. Do you understand?”

 

Of course she did not understand. Erik had neglected to explain what those duties entailed. He looked around in a mild panic, drawing inspiration from his squalid surroundings.

 

“You are to live here as my servant,” he improvised. “You will not weep or wail or try to escape. Of course, there is no way out, so I mention this only out of courtesy. My last servant tried to escape and was gobbled up by the siren before she had managed to swim more than three metres across the lake. Nasty business. That was eight months ago and as you can see my home has consequently fallen into a state of disrepair. You will rectify this situation. You will sweep up every petal, every cobweb, every crumb. You will clean and polish and scale and scrub. And when you have achieved this, you will keep my home in a state of spotless preservation, no matter how many hours it takes you. I do not want to see so much as a speck of dust.”

 

He gave her a narrow look, trying to ascertain if any of this information had penetrated.

 

“Now, stand up.”

 

To his surprise, the girl complied. Erik noticed that her legs shook slightly, but he ignored the urge to fetch her a chair.

 

“If you perform these duties to my liking then your life will be spared,” he said magnanimously. “Furthermore, you will not find me cruel or unreasonable. I will even provide you with sustenance and a place to sleep.”

 

And he nodded to himself, conscience satisfied.

 

When he looked down again she was examining the contents of a mahogany whatnot in the corner of the room. The vacant expression had returned. Erik clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain calm, reasoning that it was probably hunger and exhaustion, and not some inherent truculence, that was causing her to behave in such a fashion. He would have to remedy this condition if he was to have any hope of getting a day’s work out of her. Blasted creature! She had been in his lair for less than an hour, and already she was causing him trouble! Well, she would not be rewarded for such behaviour. He would refuse to give her victuals until she at least understood the scope of her duties.

 

“Come,” he said, sweeping impatiently from the room. “I will show you the rest of the house.”

 

A green damask curtain separated the parlour from the library. He drew it to one side and entered, the girl following close behind. “I spend much of my time in here,” he explained, “so this is where I wish you to begin.” Although she still appeared slightly dazed, he noticed a glimmer of interest as she spied his collection of rare books. “You will refrain from touching them,” he added sternly, and she looked away, suddenly fascinated by the patterns in the carpet.

 

“Here...”

 

He led her back through the parlour and into a dark, panelled chamber containing a long table and chairs. Above it, thick with cobwebs, hung a low chandelier. “This is the dining room,” he said. “It is seldom used, as I am not in the habit of entertaining, but I expect you to clean it as thoroughly as you clean the library. Appearances must be maintained.”

 

There were two further doors, one small and unassuming, the other, at the end of a short corridor, ornate and somewhat oriental in appearance. “You are not to enter that room under any circumstances,” he told her, allowing a note of menace to creep into his voice. It seemed to have the desired effect, for she gave a brief, convulsive nod.

 

Satisfied, he opened the smallest door to reveal a galley kitchen. Beneath the grime it was practical and well-appointed, with a large dresser, water-tank, and a cast iron range. The last meal to have been prepared in there had been abandoned without being served. He could not remember the particulars. The rotten carcass of a chicken - some large bird, in any instance - sat upon the carving tray. Blue fur had sprouted from the  serving dishes and the copper pans in the sink were similarly afflicted. Erik remained just long enough to indicate the presence of a tiny scullery before returning to the parlour.

 

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was nearly three. No wonder she looked exhausted.

 

He had not yet given any thought to where she might sleep. Christine’s room was out of the question, of course. Besides, he did not want her creeping around his lair at all hours, searching for an escape route. There was really only one option, although it was far from ideal.

 

Returning to the picture of the Persian tower, he turned the mechanism a different way, so that the staircase, instead of leading up to the third cellar, twisted down into the Communard’s dungeon.

 

As the name suggested, it had once been used by the radicals who had briefly seized control of the city in the wake of the Prussian war. They had used it to house political prisoners, and after their defeat Erik had used it as a powder-magazine, barrelling enough gunpowder to reduce the Place de l’Opéra to a smoldering crater, should the need have arisen. Although he no longer used it to store ammunition, it remained a fetid place, musty with the lingering smell of damp powder. Hardly a suitable apartment for a creature so obviously in need of better care, but Erik did not falter as he lit a bullseye lantern and led the girl down to the dungeon’s solitary cell.

 

To his relief, she did not need to be coaxed or threatened, merely entered at his gesture and settled herself against the wall in the far corner. A sickness pooled in his stomach. She looked so small and bewildered that for an absurd moment he contemplated offering words of comfort.

 

He locked the door instead. “I will return in a few hours,” he murmured, then fled back to the parlour before he could do anything foolish.

 

***

 

Sleep was an elusive beast. Although he had abstained for days now, working feverishly on preparations for his wedding, the girl’s presence made it impossible, despite his exhaustion. He returned instead to pacing the rug in vain hope of finding a solution to his latest problem.

 

It did not help that the girl appeared to have a cold. Hoarse, hacking coughs punctured this thoughts, leaving them open to attack.

 

 _But really, Erik has brought this situation on himself_ , said a snide, supercilious inner voice. _He encouraged its curiosity with his basket of figs and now he acts as though he wants nothing to do with it! Keeps it in dungeon and treats it with contempt!_

 

He recognised the voice. It was the same voice that had told him, once, that it would be a marvellous idea to pretend to be the Angel of Music. Insidious and sly in its methods, whenever he had resolved to tell Christine the truth, the voice had reminded him of his deformities, of his wickedness, and had assured him that nobody would ever look upon his true face with anything but horror.

 

_Surely the gentlemanly thing to do would be to show the creature hospitality, to give it sustenance and a warm bed? Perhaps it would like a glass of Tokay?_

The voice was not to be trusted!

 

Besides, it was for her own good. The girl would safe in the dungeon. Safe from his infernal temper, and safe from his kindness, which was far more dangerous. He had been kind to Christine at first and look how that had turned out. During his time as the Khanom’s executioner he had despatched many prisoners for whom he felt nothing but cold indifference, a number which paled to insignificance when he considered the many thousands he had been prepared to annihilate in the name of love.

 

_At the very least he could take her a blanket..._

Ignoring the voice, he went into the kitchen to see if he could find some other remedy.

 

In an ordinary house the kitchen dresser might have been used to display the second best dinner service. Here, in addition to the second best dinner service, was an impressive apothecary collection. Dusty, treacle-brown bottles vied for space alongside gravy boats and dainty milk jugs. He stood in front of them for several minutes, one keen, diagnostic ear listening to the wretched sounds issuing from the dungeon. More than a cold, he thought. He needed to shift the phlegm from her chest before it turned into pneumonia. Clearing a space on the counter, he set a saucepan of water on to boil, then returned to the dresser and, after a moment’s speculation, selected a small bottle of mastic resin. The women in the Khanom’s harem used to chew it to whiten their teeth, but the daroga, who was beyond such vanities, had sworn by it as a remedy for bronchitis.

 

He emptied a few crumbs into the mortar and crushed them together with some liquorice root and coltsfoot. As soon as the water began to simmer he added a few flakes of dried peppermint to improve its  palatability. He had no honey to use as a sweetener, which was regrettable.

 

Still, it was better than nothing.

 

As he waited for the infusion to brew he returned to the third cellar to fetch Madame Giry’s basket. He took the opportunity to examine the girl’s hiding place in greater detail. A collection of musty rags on the floor behind the costume rack suggested that she had been sleeping there on a regular basis. He wondered how many times had she seen him retrieve the basket. It was an unpleasant thought. He sifted through the rags in search of further clues. There were more of the ubiquitous matches and a tray fashioned from an old cigar box, which had been fitted with shoulder straps.

 

A match-seller, then. Had she been leaving the matches in lieu of payment for the figs? There was logic to that, at a squint, but why had she only targeted the figs? Surely bread and cheese were more filling? It was very strange.

 

Having accumulated more questions than answers, he went downstairs and checked the parlour clock. Half past five. How long were children of her age supposed to sleep? Surely no more than a few hours: it could not take long for such tiny creatures to rejuvenate. In any event the infusion was ready. He strained it into a clean teacup and set it on a tray with some bread and cheese. Then, assuming what he hoped was an intimidating demeanor, he made his way back down to the dungeon.

 

She was already awake. Two little eyes gleamed at him like beads of jet in the darkness, although she made no sound.

 

Sliding the tray beneath the cell door, he wondered at her continued immunity to his face. It occurred to him that she might be damaged in some way. That would explain her muteness, although perhaps she was simply still in shock and struggling to come to terms with the grim reality of her situation. He could not blame her for that. Neither could he provide a remedy.

 

It took a moment for her to respond to the tray, and when she did, her lack of appetite troubled him even further. He watched with growing concern as she nibbled the corner of a bread roll, wincing as she swallowed the barest morsel.

 

He indicated the mug. “Drink that,” he said. “It is a tonic for the throat.”

 

She drank all of it, despite grimacing at the foul taste. He was so relieved that he did not pass any comment on her half-eaten breakfast as he unlocked the door and led her upstairs. In truth, he did not want to engage with her any more than was absolutely necessary. She had done nothing untoward and already he was struggling to remain calm.

 

Leaving her in the scullery, he went into the library with the vague notion that a few more chapters of _A Natural History_ might act as a balm to his nerves. He had just selected the correct volume when she appeared in the doorway, having equipped herself with a mop and bucket. She was watching him again.

 

He snapped the book shut and put it back on the shelf. “Well?” he scowled. “You know what to do with it. Stop gaping and get to work!”

 

Unable to control the rising panic in his chest, he strode past her with as much dignity as he could muster and went straight to his room. Once the door was locked he leaned back against it, letting out a ragged sigh.

 

_The fearsome Opéra Ghost -- frightened of a flea!_

It was ridiculous.

 

Casting about for some distraction, he noticed that his other Christine was also watching him. It was an odd look, almost of exasperation. Had he done something to cause offense? Then he realised that she was still draped in his old opera cloak, like something that had been pushed to the back of an attic and forgotten about. No wonder she was annoyed! He hurried over to the workbench where he had left Madame Giry’s basket and started unpacking the fabric for her wedding dress. Earlier that week he had made a toile from his winding sheet, puzzling out an intricate pattern for the sleeves and bodice. Now, he unrolled a metre of satin and lay the bodice pieces upon it, cutting around them in quick, precise snips.

 

It occurred to him that as soon as the gown was finished, he could let the flea go. It would not matter if she ran to straight to the constabulary. He would be past caring by then, joined in eternal matrimony with his other Christine.

 

Yes, now that he thought about it, the solution was very simple.

 

He tacked the bodice pieces together and carried them over to his other Christine, drawing aside the cloak so that he could check the fit. After making several tiny adjustments he returned to the workbench with an air of quiet satisfaction.

 

“Erik will write to Madame Giry this afternoon,” he told her, threading a needle to begin work on the seams. “He will make sure the girl is not obliged to steal figs from anyone else after the wedding. A stipend of sorts, for we must not have her starving on our account. Would you like that? It is the least we can do, considering the circumstances…”

 

Another coughing fit from outside startled him. Recovering his wits -- and his needle -- he listened for a moment. The girl did not sound any better for the tonic. In fact, she sounded much worse.

 

“Of course, he will also make sure that she is properly attired,” he added, but with less certainty than before. “It must be winter by now. She will have boots, gloves -- even a coat if you think it necessary.”

 

He glanced at his other Christine. She did not look convinced.

 

“You must know that Erik never intended to hurt the child? If he had realised that she was the one stealing the figs, then of course things would have been different, but we cannot change the past… Erik will protect her now, but it must be on his terms. A few more days. That is all.”

 

The thread snagged, and he tugged at the stubborn knot that formed in its wake.

 

He knew that she did not approve of him keeping the girl in the Communard’s dungeon. Neither did he, especially now that it appeared her condition was deteriorating. But what else could he do? Surely, after everything that had happened between them, she could not consider there being any other option? He was a fiend who knew no other language than terror and violence. She of all people knew that. He could not be trusted with the care of a small child!

 

It was no use. He put down the sewing before he could damage the delicate fabric any further. Standing up, he performed several slow laps of his coffin, wracking his brain for another solution, one that did not involve him hiding in his room, or the girl being confined to a damp cell.

 

None was forthcoming.

 

The Opéra Ghost would not have stood for this, he thought. The Opéra Ghost would have had everything under control. He paused, looking down at his crumpled suit in disgust. He had not bathed in weeks and felt vaguely embarrassed at letting himself get into such a state. The shirt had turned yellowish and there were stains at the cuffs that he would not have stood for a year ago. He might still claim the title, but it seemed obvious now that the Opéra Ghost was long gone. Christine, the real Christine, had seen to that.

 

He took his leave with a small bow and went through the antechamber that led to his bathroom. The least he could do was make himself look presentable.

 

In the bathroom he twisted the shower lever as hot as it would go, then stripped off his filthy clothes and stepped beneath the scalding water, scrubbing every inch of his body with carbolic soap. As unpleasant as the process was he felt better for it. Very little hair sprouted from the mottled grey flesh of his face and skull, which thankfully rendered the more intimate task of shaving quite unnecessary Instead, he dried himself and returned to the antechamber. It resembled the dressing rooms upstairs, but its decoration owed more to his sideshow days, the walls plastered with old theatrical posters. It contained a floor-length mirror surrounded by electric lights: a necessary evil, for he had always taken a forensic interest in those aspects of his appearance he was able to control.

 

Ignoring his reflection for the time being - it was too much to see everything -- he opened the closet and inspected the costumes in his repertoire.

 

He had played many different roles over the years. From that first child-ghost, creeping around his father’s chateau in a brocade suit and breaches he had discovered in one of the attics -- to the Living Death, wrapped in the bandages of an Egyptian mummy, which were slowly unwound before crowd of horrified-yet-fascinated spectators. At the court of Mazandaran things had been grander, his mask encrusted with jewels and his loose-fitting robes glittering with gold threads. And there had sundry other characters, forgettable ones that had served a short-term purpose, such as visiting his banker, ones that required false noses and moustaches and bowler hats.

 

Now, though, it was time to revive his most famous.

 

He put on the familiar uniform of crisp white shirt, cravat, and black dress suit. He added a clean pair of gloves, polished shoes, and a wig from the stand on his dressing table. Almost two decades worth of daily performances meant that he could do all of this without looking in the mirror, at least not until the last moment, when he was required to put on the mask.

 

Standing in front of the mirror, he forced himself to look at his bare face, or what passed for a face. Hollow eye sockets, a sunken nub of flesh where the nose should have been, lips so thin as to be almost non-existent. Whatever happened, he must not forget that this was what lay beneath the mask. That had been his mistake with Christine: to believe that she saw true goodness there, when he knew, deep down, that there was nothing of the sort.

 

However, if he played his part correctly, the girl would be safe. She might not quite fit into the category of guest, but at least she would be well treated until he could make the necessary arrangements. By assuming the role of Opéra Ghost once more, he would be able to add the ghost’s gentlemanly attributes to his armoury: control in every situation, courteousness, and above all, a polite distance.

 

He fitted the mask in place.

 

***

 

Several hours passed. He spent this time working on the wedding gown, and considering the finer details of his plan to contact Madame Giry. No further sounds issued from outside and he soon lost track of time.

 

Late in the afternoon, it occurred to him that he should probably give the girl something to eat.

 

He made his way down the narrow corridor and into the dining room, where he halted in amazement. It was spotless. She had dusted the cobwebs from the chandelier, whose reflection could be seen upon the surface of the highly polished table. The floor had been mopped, and the panelling had a soft patina of wax. When he went into the kitchen to get more tonic he found racks of cleans plates, scrubbed worktops, and copper pans hung in order of size above a freshly blacked range. Bewildered, he wandered into the parlour. Not a single shrivelled petal remained. Things which had for months been shrouded in dust now leapt out at him. The strings of the harp, the piano keys, an ostrich egg and other items on the whatnot. She had even swept out the grates and lit the fires.

 

A peculiar feeling came over him, almost as though the last nine months had never happened. He was put in mind of certain folk tales, in which the unwary traveller strays into a fairy ring, and afterwards returns to his home to discover that many centuries have passed.

 

He looked at the clock. Not quite centuries, but rather a long time.

 

There was quiet cough from beyond the library curtain. He pushed it tentatively to one side, expecting to find her still at work, but she was fast asleep in front of the fire, an open book laid between her head and the hearthstone. Drawing the curtain back by its cord, he stepped into the room to get a closer look. It was one of his collection of illuminated manuscripts, opened to a full page illustration of a saint slaying a dragon.

 

He had expressly forbidden her to touch any of his books. By rights, he should muster rage and enforce some kind of punishment. But there seemed little point getting into character before an unconscious audience. Besides, she had not done any harm.

 

He bent down and took her gently in his arms. As he straightened up she burrowed against his chest, one hand clutching at the lapel of his dress suit. He froze in alarm.

 

A reflex, nothing more.

 

From this proximity he could see that her cheeks were flushed. Unnaturally, it seemed, as if they had been stained by carmine dye. More than likely it was a consequence of sleeping too close to the fire, but it troubled him as he made his way through into the parlour. He paused by the picture of the Persian tower and considered his options. There was always Christine’s room…

 

No. That would never do. He would have to find somewhere else. The scullery perhaps. There was enough wood in the outer cellars with which to construct a rudimentary bed. It would not be luxurious by any standards, but it would be clean and comfortable. He could make it while she was sleeping.

 

Until then, she would have to make do with a blanket.

 

He carried her down to the dungeon.


End file.
